


Kick It Into Third

by ireallyhatecornnuts (CharleyFoxtrot)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Tattoos, body mods as catharsis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/ireallyhatecornnuts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam knew that people could get addicted to tattoos; he'd never considered that he might become one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kick It Into Third

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itisneverlupus](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=itisneverlupus).



> Happy birthday, [New Zealand](http://itisneverlupus.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> Thanks to [mischievousart](http://mischievousart.tumblr.com/) for the exemplary betawork; as usual, you can find me at my tumblr, disease-danger-darkness-silence.tumblr.com.

 It started, of course, with the anti-possession tattoo.

Sam’s 24th birthday was spent dead and then alive again; spent chasing demonic omens and finding out his brother had sold his soul to Hell for him. It was less than ideal.

It took him two months to work out what he wanted for his birthday (since what he’d been given was as mind-bogglingly terrible as it was wonderful). When he suggested it to Dean, his brother looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

“Excuse me?” Dean asked. He turned back to the road, blinking owlishly.

“I want a tattoo,” Sam said. He paused, and then added. “And I think you should get one too.”

“Little late to be decorating, Sammy,” Dean said, not unkindly. “I got less than a year before I’m puppy chow.”

Sam sighed, because this was Dean all over. Instead of talking, he fished out the necklace both he and his brother wore: the anti-possession charm Bobby had given them after the Meg incident. “This, Dean. We should get this.”

Dean regarded him for several seconds. Then he swore as an oncoming car honked at him, jerking the steering wheel to get back into his lane. He was quiet for a while before answering.

“Yeah, Sammy, let’s do it.”

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

Cherokee, Iowa had exactly five tattoo parlors, which Sam figured worked out to about one for every thousand residents. By the time the Winchesters rolled into town at midnight, exactly none of them were open.

It mattered little to Dean; he’d won a tattoo rig off someone in a poker game about six months ago, intending on hawking it, and he’d never gotten around to it (hard to, between their father’s cryptic messages and Sam dying and Dean selling his soul to hell). The world of pawn shops’ loss, the Winchester’s gain.

Sam was continually surprised at the esoteric nature of Dean’s knowledge. His brother knew the best way to trap a demon and the correct order in which one should read Robert Heinlein’s works, but not a single thing about how to apply for college admission or get rid of heartburn. Still, it worked in their favor, because for some reason Dean knew _everything_ there was to know about the proper hygiene procedures involved in tattooing someone.

“It’s too bad autoclaves are so friggin’ big,” Dean said. He’d found a smallish stack of waterslip paper in the tattoo kit, which Sam had printed the anti-possession design on; Dean was currently applying one to Sam’s right pectoral. “Some of this stuff, I’d be happier if it were sterilized. But the needles are all wrapped and I guess that’s all that counts right now.”

Dean thought the waterslip paper was a stupid precaution: both of the Winchester brothers had been doodling and drawing since before they could write, and though they didn’t indulge in the whimsey too often, they both had a steady hand and an innate understanding of shapes. Still, Sam _insisted_ , because this way they just had to trace it. It wouldn’t do to screw up a tattoo designed for anti-possession purposes with permanent, needle-injected ink.

And so it was in room 132 of a shitty Super 8 in Cherokee, Iowa where Sam and Dean got their matching tattoos. Dean did Sam’s, right beneath the collarbone and right over the most sensitive part of the front of his ribcage and sternum, the _dick_. In retaliation, Sam did Dean’s in the exact same spot.

When they were finished, several hours later, Dean went through the entire decontamination procedure like he’d been born to it, still bitching about the lack of an autoclave. Sam took the time to examine his new ink. As Dean had promised, the lines were steady and even, the filling a smooth, flat black. He knew Dean’s was just as well-done; when Winchesters decide to do something, they don’t fuck around.

The next day, Dean pawned the kit.

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

The anti-possession tattoos served a purpose, but it was about two weeks later - after days of special ointment, itching, peeling, and Sam finally breaking down and buying non-petroleum numbing Bactine to shut Dean up about it - Sam found himself regarding his tattoo in the mirror after his shower. And _wondering_.

His teen rebellion had been going to college, but while there he’d had his share of friends involved in the body mod scene. It was like once they’d realized they were 18 (and that they had full and total control over their bodies) all bets were off. Sam clearly remembered one of Jess’ friends getting some sort of implants in his arm that had gotten infected.

But most of them just got tattoos and the occasional piercing. One of his study buddies in English 103 had several of each and Sam had brought them up one day.

“They don’t all mean something,” James had said, stretching his arms out to show his work off. “But _most_ of them have meaning to me in some way. Like this one is for my mom cuz she raised be on her own,” and he pointed to a picture of a boulder on a cliffside that met up with a woman on a bicycle at the back. “And this one is so I remember that I should be grateful for the life I have,” and this one was a rose.

James didn’t go too far into detail about the symbolism of his art, but apparently the idea had stuck with Sam, because as he stared at his first tattoo, he suddenly began to think about it. _Hard_.

More than anything, he wanted some way to remember Jess. She’d been a sacrifice in a war she didn’t even know was being fought; beautiful and bright and shining, she’d brought joy to Sam’s life and ultimately set him on the path he was on now.

It wasn’t much, but Jess, out of _everyone_ Sam had known - she’d had a piece of his heart, and he thought she deserved a piece of his skin, too.

Dean was off doing some One Last Thing Before I Go To Hell thing that Sam wasn’t invited to - which meant it involved drugs or sex, and in Sam’s experience he was pretty sure it was sex - so if he was gonna get one, now was the time to do it. Sam didn’t question why he didn’t want Dean to know about this. It was his and his alone.

The tattoo shop was clean and bright, the exact opposite of what he’d expected; the door had bells attached, and they jingled behind him as he walked up to the counter. In the background he could hear a whirring, swishing noise that Sam was pretty sure was the autoclave that Dean had bitched about them lacking.

“Can I help you?” asked the woman at the counter. She was blonde and bright and her arms were colorful swirls of joy and sadness. Her smile reminded Sam of Jess, and he nodded, resolve cementing in his chest.

“I want to get a tattoo,” he said. He considered for a second and then tapped his left shoulder with his right forefinger. “Right here.”

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

Sam knew that people could get addicted to tattoos, just like they could get addicted to everything else, but he’d never considered that he might become one of them. It became a catharsis, letting the pain and grief bleed out of his skin while the artist got to work.

And after a while, he came to understand what James had been talking about. Not all of his tattoos meant something - hell, the blackwork partial sleeve that covered his right elbow was proof of that, as it was purely aesthetics (and _completely_ gorgeous) - but most of them were there for a reason.

The sleeve and Jessica’s dove (also solid black) kept the anti-possession symbol company up until their next encounter with Bela Talbot and her stupid ghost ship. It forcibly reminded Sam that he’d lost family, too - his mother and his father, for one. When they stopped for the night at some town in upstate New York, Sam immediately began preparations for his next tattoos.

John’s came to him several weeks later (and he didn’t know what his dad would think about the Winchester Arms font decorating the rifle that adorned his right bicep, but Sam also didn’t _care_ ), but within a few hours of booking their room in Yonkers a gorgeous rosary-style cross adorned his right shoulder.

Sam thought that Mary would have liked it.

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

Ruby tried to fill the void after Dean died and went to hell, but she was only a demon. After a month of trying (and failing) to make a deal for his return, Sam did the only thing he knew how to do.

He got a tattoo.

Trying to find a piece of art to summarize everything his brother was? Near-impossible. Finally, he doodled the opening riff to Zep’s Ramble On - Dean’s favorite song - onto a pair of music staffs. A few hours of linework later (strengthening the lines and bolding in the notes), and Sam had something he thought Dean might have enjoyed.

He said his goodbyes to Ruby and found his way to a 24-hour tattoo parlor. It wasn’t hard to find one, considering where he was, and Sam carefully didn’t think about how appropriate it was to get Dean’s tattoo applied while he was in Las Vegas.

After some deliberation with the artist - an excruciatingly short man who’d introduced himself as Billy - they agreed to do the staffs tonight and the notes a few days later. It was fucking _expensive_ , but Sam paid in cash anyway.

It was, he felt, what Dean deserved.

By the next week the tattoo was finished and scabbing; the staff just below his elbow had healed up quickly, but the staff and a few of the notes right above his wrist (the music notes dropped down his arm, curling around the back before coming to rest above his right trapezium) hadn’t healed up quite right and Sam worried they were infected. Just in case, he called Billy.

A conference call and an hour scouring the internet led Sam to a product called Ink Fixx, an ointment specifically oil-free for tattoos, and without putting much thought into it, Sam ordered three jars of the stuff.

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

Of course, Sam almost regretted taking so much care of the art when Dean came back three months later with stories of angels.

 _Almost_.

Adding the Impala’s hubcap pattern to his forearm tattoo (in celebration of Dean’s miraculous return) was almost an afterthought, and when it was neatly bisected in an altercation with a demon two months later, Sam didn’t mourn it. Strangely, it healed back together in a perfect circle.

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

He didn’t know why he was so insistent on keeping the art from his brother, but he was always conscious to get them in places he could cover up. If Dean noticed a newfound aversion to being topless around him in Sam, well, he didn’t say anything.

Of course, the elder Winchester had his hands full as it was, so he probably didn’t notice. Hell, he didn’t notice when Sam added the rosary beads to Mary’s tattoo (after he found out she’d been a hunter), even when he slapped his younger brother on the exact spot he’d just had inked, so hard that Sam let out a pained gasp.

Yeah, Dean was a little preoccupied these days. Sam hated him for it.

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

Ruby never said anything about them, which he was grateful for; it would have ruined their beauty and meaning when he had to kill her.

When he got the Strength card tattooed on his left ribcage, he wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing with it. Was it for Ruby (and how fucked up was it, that Sam had let himself fall for a demon like that)? Was it to remind himself to be strong? Was it a careful remnant of his past life, a caution to never be led by chains (metaphorical or otherwise) like the lion on the card?

Either way, he’d suffered through multiple sessions for the piece; unlike all of his other tattoos, this one was in full color. The line work was delicate, also unlike nearly every other piece. It was a perfect replica of the card. Pamela Colman Smith would have been proud.

His time away from Dean gave him ample opportunity to get a second tattoo, as well: the alchemical symbol for steel. This one was definite: he had to be _strong_. Lucifer was chasing after him, other _hunters_ were chasing after him, his brother had abandoned him, the angels hated him.

Sam needed the strength that steel offered, and while the ink was still healing he found himself curled up around his right hand every night, cradling the symbol to him like it was something precious.

If Dean noticed the new pattern on his skin when they got back together, he never mentioned it.

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

Sam gets the Taurus symbol as a reminder of who he is when Dean almost dies (of old age, hilariously enough). It sits, almost innocently, beneath his anti-possession symbol, but the weight of the ink on his skin - he’d chosen a deep green instead of black, this time - is heavy.

The Apocalypse is upon them. Somewhere out there, there are three Horsemen. The literal Devil is walking amongst them, and Heaven is trying to jump-start a battle royale that will end it all.

At the eye of the storm, himself and his brother; a renegade angel; their functional alcoholic of a father-figure; and whatever other ragtag remnants of a group that they can piece together. Every now and then, Sam just wants to know that he’s still _him_.

And hell, he’s a Taurus, so why not. The tattoo artist - Jeanette - had blonde bangs grown out to her chin, absolutely no other hair on her head, and she teased him mercilessly for the astrological sign. Sam had smiled back, eager to joke around with someone who didn’t know how close to the end of everything they were, but his face fell as he walked out of the parlor.

Each time he let needle touch his skin, he changed just a little bit, but at the heart of it all he was still _him_. And that’s what Taurus meant.

Of course, when Dean caught sight of it a few days later he mocked him about being a stubborn bull, and Castiel had worried about the implications of Leviticus in modern-day humanity, but Sam wouldn’t give it up for the world.

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

His tears weren’t even dry yet when he stumbled into the shop in Springfield; in retrospect Sam was lucky that the artist had been able to understand what it was he wanted. He’d been borderline-incoherent with grief and shock, regret and disappointment.

Still, a few hours later he had two new tattoos, still glistening with leftover ink. The little dipper with its over-emphasized North Star was for Ellen; the Southern Cross for Jo. It was, he thought, the least he could do.

The shop had been some borderline-filthy dungheap, patchouli-scented incense clogging his nose and making his tears worse, but somehow he managed to escape serious infection. Dean would have been disappointed in the lack of sterilization equipment.

Bobby caught sight of the new art a few days later, when Sam happened to be wearing a T-shirt instead of his usual button-up; the older man’s eyes misted over slightly but all Sam got for his efforts was a gruff, “Good thing hunters don’t need to go _job-huntin’_ , too.”

Sam reciprocated the respect by not bringing it up when star maps featuring Polaris and the Southern Cross found their way into Bobby’s study.

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

Sam’s soulless self didn’t seem to have much of an affinity for tattoos; he only got one the entire year and a half that the real Sam was stuck in hell with nothing but angry archangels for company. It featured a lewd picture of Rocky and Bullwinkle, it was in a spot Sam had never intended on getting a tattoo, and it was obvious that it was his way of staking claim to this body of theirs.

Sam doesn’t like to talk about it.

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

It wasn’t until Cas put the souls back in Purgatory that Sam even _thought_ about getting another tattoo. Castiel had become, as amazing and unreal as it was to think about, a member of their family - a Winchester by association and self-sacrifice. He was Sam’s friend, even if he wasn’t his _blood_ , and his death devastated both brothers.

In between hallucinations, Sam did research. Lots and _lots_ of research. So much research, in fact, that he discovered an entire branch of magic that he hadn’t known existed - angelology.

He laughed about it on his own time, since even obliquely mentioning Cas or angels was likely to set Dean off these days. Eventually Bobby caught him at it and he had a grim laugh as well. The idea of angels aiding humans in any way - outside of very specific angels, like Gabriel and Castiel - was darkly hilarious.

Still, eventually Sam found the information he sought - like Castiel’s angelic symbol. And eventually, it found its way onto his skin, right near the crook of his left elbow.

Sam was very careful to keep it from Dean.

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

Bobby’s was harder. The only person who meant more to Sam than Dean was Bobby, and just like with Dean, it was hard as hell to summarize him in one image. Bobby was so _much_ to the brothers: wisdom, a safe haven, a home when they had nothing to cling to, sage advice dealt in a brittle, angry voice. Warmth disguised by the smell of Hunter’s Helper.

 _Family_.

Finally, though, Sam settled on a wrist cuff on his right arm. He’d been staring at the blank patch of skin in the shower for about a year, wondering what he’d do with it (and when had he started looking at his skin like it was a sketch pad waiting to be filled?), and he decided that this place of honor needed to belong to his replacement father.

Bobby had encouraged Sam’s love of learning. Bobby had helped him fill out college applications on the sly. Bobby always had the book they needed or the lore they wanted. Bobby was more than the sum total of his parts, always defying expectations by being a genius clad in denim and mesh hats.

And so eventually Sam had a scroll put there, done in delicate black and orange. Every month or so, Sam would wander into a new shop and have something added to the scroll, until finally it felt complete.

It was really unfortunate that right about then was when they discovered that Bobby wasn’t as dead and gone as they thought he was.

Finding out that Bobby had refused to die properly took it’s toll on Sam, and he found himself up at about two in the morning, unable to sleep and pacing the floor of the cabin. Dean was snoring loudly from the bed, and Sam avoided it like the plague, instead opting to pace across the kitchen.

A second of bone-chilling cold was the only warning he had, and he whirled around to discover that Bobby’s ghost was standing in the middle of the kitchen.

“Bobby,” Sam hissed, eyes darting over toward Dean.

“Sam,” Bobby acknowledged. He shifted, slightly - Bobby could, at times, be more awkward than Castiel had been, and this was one of those times. Although, in his favor, Sam didn’t really know what established protocol there was for, “Oh, hey, I’m a ghost now and you guys are hunters of the supernatural but I’m also basically your dad so don’t send me to the other side just yet?”

Awkward was probably the best they could hope for.

“What do you _want_?” Sam asked, sidling closer and trying to ignore the chill.

Bobby shrugged. “Gets lonely, bein’ dead. Figured I’d pop in and say hello.”

Sam blinked. “You’re a ghost, Bobby. You can’t just pop in for a chat whenever you want. For one thing, you might give us frostbite.”

Bobby chuckled in response to that. He was quiet for a second before he asked, his voice soft, “What’d you get for me?”

Sam blinked at him. “What?”

“Ink. I know you do it every time someone goes, kid. You’re not as subtle as you think you are. So what’d you get for me?”

Sam blushed brilliantly. “Oh,” he said. Shoving the cuff of his shirt up, he bared the tattoo. “This.”

Bobby inspected it; his eyes softened as he did, taking in the sigils and symbols that Sam had later had added to the scroll like they told a story. And they sort of _did_ \- the devil’s trap, the protection symbols, and the other various things represented the sum total of knowledge that Bobby had left to them, had schooled them in.

“I like it,” Bobby offered, straightening up. “Not exactly what I expected, but -”

Sam rolled his eyes, but remained silent.

“Thanks,” Bobby continued. His voice was soft; the next moment, he flickered out of existence, and Sam was left in the now-freezing kitchen by himself.

He stared at the space Bobby had so recently occupied for several seconds before he replied. “No problem, Bobby,” he said.

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

The mandala was to represent Dean’s second death, the one Sam didn’t know was actually being spent in Purgatory, very much _alive_. The fact that it was nestled so closely to Castiel’s symbol wasn’t coincidental; there were plenty of spots Sam could have got something for Dean, but Cas and Dean, he felt, deserved to be memorialized together.

He didn’t know exactly what was going on between his brother and the angel. There’d been plenty of jokes in the past - Crowley, Balthazar, Rachel, Hester, hell, even _Bobby_ had brought up Dean’s strange attachment to Castiel, and vice versa. But Sam had no idea how much reality could be taken from the jokes, and he’d never wanted to risk Dean’s ire enough to ask. He just knew that when Dean thought Cas was awake, alive, and well in a mental institution his face had lit up like Christmas; that when he’d thought Cas was dead, he’d looked like his soul and heart were broken.

So putting him and Cas near each other on his skin seemed natural.

Amelia was a blessing during the sessions; the mandala was intricate and required hours upon _hours_ of work. It was painful work because of where it was located (partially on top of his left elbow, creeping over into the sensitive flesh of his underarm), and she stayed with him through all of them, holding his hand as needed and never asking questions about the rest of his ink. He loved her for it, among other things.

When Dean came back from Purgatory, Sam began to wonder if he should just...stop getting tattoos for Dean. Because clearly, if he got one every time Dean appeared to die, he’d be a solid black by the time he himself departed from this world.

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

Dean found out about the tattoos on a sunny Thursday afternoon, just after they’d left Castiel at the retirement home.

The older brother had gone out for whatever reason; Sam thought he’d be gone for a while, and he’d taken a shower while he had the room to himself. He hadn’t thought to check for Dean’s presence before walking out of the bathroom clad in jeans, socks, and not much else.

“ _Whoa_ ,” Dean said, leaning back in his chair. “I knew you had some ink, Sammy, but I didn’t realize you were a fuckin’ _Etch-a-Sketch_.”

Sam froze in place at Dean’s voice, before slowly turning to face him. “It’s really none of your business, Dean,” he said, voice quiet.

Dean blinked over at him, frowning. He was uncharacteristically quiet for several seconds before he stood up and slowly started to peel off his outer shirt. Eventually, he stood in front of Sam shirtless, and Sam realized that for all he’d been angry at Dean ignoring Sam for all these years, he was equally guilty.

Dean’s chest, shoulders, arms, sides, hell, even his back - were _covered_ in ink. There was a bright red handprint on his left shoulder (no doubts what _that_ was about), and down his right side, the Hermit (which Sam was pretty sure was a Led Zeppelin reference). Something looking like chicken scratch on his left arm revealed itself to be Kurt Vonnegut’s self-portrait, and if Sam wasn’t completely mistaken there was an _angel sword_ tattooed down his brother’s spine.

Without preamble, Dean jabbed at the tree printed across his right forearm (Sam was pretty sure it was Alder). “It means strength. Got it for Bobby,” Dean grunted.

A slow smile spread across Sam’s face and he sat across the table from where his brother had been. Just as carefully, Dean sat back down, watching with intrigue as Sam pointed to the constellations on his upper arm.

“Ursa minor and the southern cross,” he offered. “For Ellen and Jo.”

Dean laughed. “Jo’d probably bitch-slap you for that,” he said.

“You’re probably right,” Sam agreed, relaxing more into his seat.

The afternoon passed into evening with the two brothers comparing ink, hidden away for so long, and by the time they decided they should go to bed for the night, every single piece had been uncovered.

Even Soulless Sam’s contribution, which Dean laughed at for thirty minutes.

It was a good night.

 

**/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\**

 

The next time a tattoo was required, they got it together, somberly, at a tattoo parlor in Lawrence, Kansas.  

**Author's Note:**

> Note: "Kick it into third," is a term I've heard a lot of my tattoo-artist friends use when they know that the person they're inking isn't gonna start crying from the pain. It means you can go faster, dig harder if needed, ramp up the RPM's or whatever on the gun. I'm NOT a tattoo artist and I absolutely do not recommend getting a tattoo while using this fic as reference. Do research! Also consider reading basiacat's [An Exercise in 'Worthless,'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/535676) which is referenced in this fic (spot the reference, win a prize! Or...uh, well, nothing really, except probably a thumbs-up from me). 
> 
> Also, this fic has a [companion piece](http://mischievousart.tumblr.com/post/47712378082/not-all-of-his-tattoos-meant-something-hell-the) of art by [mischievousart](http://mischievousart.tumblr.com/); he and I worked together to create this universe as a birthday gift for [itisneverlupus](http://itisneverlupus.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 


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